The Hidden Enemy
by Riley G
Summary: There is a new doctor in the House...Emmanuella Chase. As you can tell by the last name, Robert Chase has successfully been able to marry her. But, predicaments come from all sides of this story. R&R please.
1. Preface

**Title: The Hidden Enemy**

**Genre: Television shows; HOUSE**

**Started: 11/9/06**

**Ended: —**

**Setback: I do not own any of the characters, plots, or any of that other loverly stuff that has to do with HOUSE. xD**

* * *

_**Preface**_

Nobody ever gives it much thought about how they are going to die. In fact, some give it no thought at all. But they know it's coming, yet act as if it is nothing that will someday, somehow come upon them and the ones they love.

This story is not about Death, though Death partially creeps its way in through the shadows of the moor, and haunts thee until they are nothing but a helpless pile of flesh and bones, begging for Death to seep into their souls, and take them away. The ones that die shall not be revealed, but their lives will slowly and painfully be shaved away until their last moment comes. Their last breath blows. And their last motion ceases. Then, you will know.

* * *

Magical? Breathtaking? Loyal? What words shall be put into fine literature to describe this betrothed couple?

Loving? Faithful? True? Or rather, should ye like to start at the beginning?

Confusing? Lost? Hopeless? It's almost mind-boggling. There seems to be no words.

---

Lights dimmed…

Candles lit with a warm, cinnamon flavor crawling up their nostrils…

A sofa made with coffee-colored fabric with a creamy carpet support underneath it…

Fire place with dancing flames cracking behind the screen…

The sound of glistening piano keys drowning…

Two innocent lovers.

Robert Chase.

Emmanuella Chase.

Married for four years now. And 'twas for a good cause.

Love…

…and something else that was both a blessing…

…and a burden.

* * *

Both of them laying down parallel to each other on the couch, Robert found it the perfect moment.

"Hey, Emmy," he began unsteadily, taking her hands into his. His voice was so soft, only the woman whose chest was pressed firmly against his could hear it.

"Yes, Rob?" she answered, giggling lightheartedly. She squeezed his hand gently as he brushed his fingertips lightly against her forehead to put a small piece of her dark, loose curls out of her face.

"When are you going to tell him?" he inquired anxiously, wanting to so badly hear her answer.

"Hmm…" she thought obviously knowing the answer. "…Today?"

"When, Em?" he pushed. "When?"

"Please…" Her eyes begged him to not rush her. "I'll _tell_ him."

Robert took her word for it. He didn't have to lean in much, but he bent his neck forward and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She returned the shallow depth of the kiss, and sighed after reopening her eyes. She stared at Robert as he sat up and followed his proceedings. When finished, they sat apart from each other on opposing sides of the sofa. Emmy had placed her chin in a cupped palm of her hand, and Robert was rubbing his temple.

Emmy looked over at him, her eyes sorrowful. "You're scared, aren't you," she accused, letting her arm drop and relax on the armrest.

Robert looked up, his hair falling into his eyes. "No, no, no," he protested, obviously not the best liar. His wife gave him a skeptical look, and he nodded. "Yes, yes, yes."


	2. Saving Manison

_Chapter One_

The pressure, oh Lord, the pressure.

Sweat pouring down each and every one of their faces blocked their vision slightly as it rolled down into their eyes, while some droplets pricked themselves on their eyelashes. A riot of panic-stricken fear and worry flowed through their ears as House watched from the outside. They bustled around, trying to save the aged man's life.

Harry Manison _was_ aged, but only middle-aged; in his late forties, early fifties. Father of two—a son and a daughter, both out of the house. It was only him and his wife, Guinevere. But now he was diagnosed with heart failure. Severe heart failure.

The clicking of machines and tools could be heard below the many voices.

"Do it now!" an Australian accent ordered. Foreman placed the shockers on Manison and did the procedure, which in turn was ineffective.

"Damn…" he muttered, throwing the shockers onto the ground. They landed on the floor with a loud crash that made everyone jump. As everybody put fingers to their foreheads in great frustration, Emmanuella kept her stare on the patient, who was trembling violently. The steady beeping noise that was penetrating their ears became nothing but one solid sound.

Cameron put her head against the clear, glass wall as everybody else sighed heavily. But Emmy still kept a constant stare on Manison. And all of a sudden, she blurted, "He's not dead."

Each person turned to her. "Emmy," Chase sighed, "you can't do anything now. He's gone."

"No…no, no, he's not," Emmy objected, stand up straight. Hastily, she put on a stethoscope and commanded, "Cameron—get a needle. Keep shocking him."

"Just a plain needle?" Cameron confirmed, inching toward the door. She was confused, but knew that Emmy had spent her whole life training and studying medical conditions. She trusted her knowledge, even if it was far-fetched.

"Yes," answered Emmy, putting the stethoscope on Manison's chest. Foreman shocked him once more, and the beeping rhythm started up again. Fast.

"Chase…what are we doing?!" Foreman demanded, puzzled, and putting the shockers away.

"The problem's not in his heart; it's in his lungs," she responded quickly, taking the stethoscope out of her ears and replaced it around her neck. The tension had returned in the room when Cameron reentered.

"We've got to somehow get air back into his lungs," Chase continued. "They collapsed when we shocked him. The excitement caused him to stop breathing; he had a heart attack."

"And you're sure this is going to work," her husband panted, holding Manison down by his pelvic bone and arm. He was hard to keep retained.

"Ninety-nine point nine percent positive," replied Emmy, grabbing the needle from Cameron. "The other point one percent…he dies."

"Didn't he die before?" asked Cameron, aiding Robert in holding Manison down.

"He stopped breathing," Chase informed her, eyeing his wife. "One is officially dead when the brain stops working." All eyes zoomed to a scanning screen, above the patient's head, that was keeping track of his brain waves and function. It was fluently marking. He was alive.

"As far as I'm concerned," Emmy casually broke the silence, holding the needle up, "I'm not stopping until I know for sure what Manison is."

Chase, Foreman, Cameron, and House all stared at Emmy in admiration. She never gave up. Never. She always fought for her patient's lives until the bitter or sweet end—which ever way it turned out.

Emmy, embarrassed at the gaze she was receiving, took in a large breath. "God, forgive us," she sighed, and speared Manison's skin. It went through his skin to his lung, and punctured it. Feeling the needle go through two layers, Chase announced, "It's through. Get a tube."

Foreman rushed to a tray and snatched a long, clear tube, and gave it to Emmy. Hearts beating fast, suspense building, hardly able to be withheld, the doctor gradually slid the tube into the patient.

Cameron bit her lip. Foreman held a sweaty clenched fist. Robert played with the seam of his coat. The tube seemed to move in slow-motion as Emmy got it through the first hole.

Onto the next one.

Outside, watching intently with great pleasure, House smirked, leaning slightly on his cane.

At last, the tube had gone through both Manison's skin and the lining of his lung. It inflated, and a loud gasp for fabulous, refreshing oxygen was heard in his direction. At uproar of triumph echoed in the room as the team celebrated. Robert raised his arms up, thrilled, while Cameron and Foreman embraced. Emmy, on the other hand, was smiling and gasped for air, leaning on her elbows on the table Manison was on, her forehead in her hands. Robert grasped her waist and held her up, twirling his love once as she beamed, looking down at the people below her.

Interrupting and perhaps ruining the moment, House staggered into the room and said, "Nice work, Chase. But your job's to help patients, not have your partner long for sex when he gets home tonight from you being the hero."

Emmanuella looked away and flushed. "Sorry," she apologized softly as House walked past her and tended to Manison, putting tubes into his nose so he could breathe.

"Go take five," said House. "All of you—while I make sure this guy gets drugged. I'm sure he needs some extreme kick-ass pain killer."

As the team began to pile out the exit of the room, Robert slowly turned his head to Emmy. "You know," he mouthed, "not might be an excellent time to _tell him._"

"Rob, please," Emmy pleaded out loud, almost in a whining tone. "I'll tell him…in my own good time."


	3. Bailey Chapel

_Two_

The eerie silence of the room was a completely different atmosphere from twenty minutes prior. Allison Cameron, biting her lower lip in thought, fiddled with the water bottle in her delicate, pale hand, leaning against the counter nonchalantly, her curly red locks cascading over her shoulders, as if to protect her from unwanted attention. The saving of the middle-aged man hadn't necessarily effected her; she'd seen it all before, so why was she giving such the strange aura of discomfort? Questions like this puzzled in her head, quarrelling and pecking at the variety of different possible answers.

A white mug, nearly spilling its contents of a steaming liquid, it gingerly brushing against the interior brim, was being slowly spun in circles by Eric Foreman. He heaved a sigh, letting go of his drink and pocketing his hands in the white jacket that he wore. Something was bothering him, too, but it wasn't the unanticipated prevailing fate of Manison—it was the Chase couple. Always getting close, they were, but it was in a worried way; like they were cautious, or scared of something that they knew was going to happen, but at what time, no one knew.

At that time, Robert had his arm around his wife Emmanuella, who seemed greatly troubled. Both Cameron and Foreman took note that she was not eating—at all, in fact. If she was, they assumed it was at home, for she did not even dehydrate herself between cases everyday. Robert wasn't himself, either, but he was at least grabbing lunch daily.

House, being his normal and hardly conscientious self, did not take high note on all of these things. As long as Emmy was alive and breathing and doing her job, he was fine.

"Why is it so damn quiet in here?" he muttered, his tone more of a statement rather than a question as he limped into the room, leaning on his cane, going over to the whiteboard.

Foreman sighed, "It's always quiet in here."

"Not always," Robert chimed. "Just…a lot today." Shaking his head, he tightened his grip on his wife's shoulder.

"Ow," Emmanuella remarked, shifting in her seat at the table with him and Foreman. "You trying to break my shoulder or some—"

"Oh, shut _up_…" whined House, rolling his head on his neck, conveying his annoyance rather well. "You guys are difficult."

Cameron looked to him, her eyes timid, but piercing. "You've been in here for—what?—two minutes, and already you're criticizing us?"

"This is America," he said. "Criticism is like getting a cup of coffee."

Foreman peeked into his cup, contorting his frown.

There was a pause, until House broke the silence once more. "New case," he blurted. "Ten year old Bailey Chapel is being diagnosed with cancer. At least that's what her stuck-up mommy and daddy claim."

"How do they know it's cancer?" asked Robert.

"They don't."

Foreman sighed heavily, shaking his head as Emmy watched everything intently with her vibrant yet desolate chocolate eyes. "Why do people just assume their kid has a disease if they don't know what they're talking about…?" he asked absently.

House replied, "Because this is America."

* * *

"Heard you got a new patient," she said as he walked into her office, shutting the wooden, glass-paned doors with his foot. "How is she?"

"Like a slab of wood," he responded, going over to her, staring blankly across, for she was on the opposing side of the desk. "Parents are absolute idiots."

"Well, have you made a diagnosis yet?" she asked.

"Chase is checking her out right now."

* * *

The young doctor wrapped the Velcro fabric around the child's arm, keeping a steady beat with squeezing the air pocket as she took the blood pressure. She kept silent the entire time, avoiding any sort of eye contact. The girl stared at the doctor intently, studying each movement carefully, taking in everything like a dry sponge. With her stringy blonde hair, Bailey choked from the bottom of her throat, "You're pretty."

Shooting her eyes up quickly, while undoing the Velcro, Emmanuella said softly, "Thank you. And you're just as pretty, I promise."

Bailey cracked a smirk, trying to play it well, but it failed as the grin quickly faded into the Void. "Where're my parents?" she asked.

"They're outside, honey," she replied, placing the instrument on the table next to the bed, taking her stethoscope out. "Don't worry."

"I wanna see them."

Emmy sighed, still not looking at the child. "You will, once we make an accurate diagnosis."

"No—now."

Emmy stared at the girl, her eyebrows furrowed, in a quite satisfying state of perplexity. Bailey continued.

"I wanna see them now. Please? They're so worried about me."

She sighed, looking back at what she was doing. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you have to stay here." Her tone was gentle; silky and smooth; flowing, and she hoped it would greatly comfort the child.

"Why? I have to see them."

"You will, Bailey. I promise. But we have to finish this if you want to get better."

Bailey exhaled noisily, looking away. "If I get better…" she murmured, mostly to the air next to her rather than the doctor working on her. "You know, I never really knew if something was wrong with me to begin with. But then—I started to get a real funny feeling in my neck, you know? Big pain. It was so tense…like my neck was going to snap in half." She paused, letting Emmy take in all of the information, making hundreds of mental notes. "My parents brought me here. They thought it was a tumor." She looked to Emmy worriedly. "You think it's a tumor?"

Emmy pursed her lips, rounding them, and exhaled. "I don't know," she answered, her tone still gentle. "That's why I can't let you go yet."

Bailey understood with a nod, one nod, and kept her gaze on Emmy's hands; her motherly, tender hands as they worked.


	4. Getting Deeper

Cameron waltzed leisurely down the hallway, attempting to swallow numerous times, all of which she was left with no success at her many fatal tries. It was bothering her again. Holding a clipboard securely under her arm, she merely wandered about, having nothing much to do but talk to a certain boss of hers.

"Cuddy?" she requested her attention as she walked into the office, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Doctor Cuddy glanced up from the massive pile of papers on her desk, and standing, looked her coworker square in the eye. "Cameron," she said flatly. "What brings you here?" She cocked a brow.

Cameron cleared her throat. "It's Chase," she sighed unhappily, the sparkle in her eye dulling. "Both of them."

"Jealous?" Cuddy chuckled darkly.

"No," she defended, appalled and slightly offended. "I'm worried."

"Oh?" Cuddy was interested. "Why?"

Cameron was reluctant to give her feelings. "I think something's wrong with Emma," she blurted, her muscles tensing, waiting for Cuddy's reaction.

The woman stared at her for a long time, the only thing she heard being the humble, steadiness of her breaths. "Oh," she said, keeping her voice low. "What are you implying?"

As Cameron opened her mouth to speak, hesitantly, though, a man with a cane burst into the room, as he usually did, rather bluntly and aggressively. The girls turned their heads to him silently as he walked to a filing cabinet, singing something to himself as he flipped through the files. "What do you do with a drunken sailor; what do you do with a drunken sailor…" He continued to whistle the rest, oblivious to the words. As he finished, finding the file that he had his eye upon, he took it from the drawer and shut the metal cabinet, walking out of the room, as if nothing had happened.

"Good ol' House…" Cuddy sighed, shaking her head. Taking in a large breath, she asked, "Now—what was it you were going to say?"

Cameron nibbled at her lip, blinking rapidly. "Nothing." It came as almost a whisper, and she removed herself from the office.

* * *

The team of doctors assembled into the bleak whiteboard room, all seemingly very unhappy and left in a state of despair.

"My God, you all look like you've died," House observed, coming in last and grabbing a marker to use on the board.

Foreman coughed, clearing his throat as he peeked out of the corner of his eye to the married couple beside him. "I have a hunch," he muttered.

Robert eyed him, raising a brow. By pure serendipity, his wife did not see him, and he and Foreman began to exchange a visual conversation.

Foreman: _What's the matter with her? _He arched an eyebrow.

Robert: _I don't know if I should tell you. _He winced.

Foreman: _Is it that bad?_ His eyes widened.

Robert: _…It might be. Don't mention it to her, okay? She hasn't told House yet._ He held up his hands.

House: _You guess better let me in on this or I'm going to fire you._ "Pay attention!" he commanded. "Or are you trying to kill this girl?"

They shot their focus to the man in front of them.

House went on. "I got a file on Chapel. Seems she's had numerous ear infections over the past year, one right after the other."

"So maybe it's something in her ear…?" Foreman suggested the obvious.

"She never complained about anything in her ear, now would you let me finish?" House inquired. "Thank you. She's also had a few stomach problems," he added.

"Like what?" Robert wanted to know.

"Stomach flu, butterflies in the stomach, juices going into the stomach and breaking down food," House answered. "You know; the usual."

"House." Cameron's voice was firm, but it shook.

House nodded. "Her parents' parents both died from stomach cancer," he reported. "So we might have to do a little research on the kid's stomach and ears."

Emmanuella spoke up. "She told me…she told me that the reason her parents brought her here was because of a pain in her neck. She said they told her it was a tumor." She slunk back into her seat as she was looked at.

House was yet again the first to speak. "So. We'll look at her neck, then, too."

"Is she sexually mature?" Cameron asked, just for consideration's sake.

"She's ten," Foreman remarked.

"All women are different," Emmy said with pride, looking to Cameron with a grin.

Rolling his eyes, House gave in. "Well fine, if you want to do an X-Ray on her uterus too," he countered.

Robert snickered.


	5. The Difference Between Secrecy & Privacy

Five

_Five_

It wasn't enough. Impossible to hold it back. Her hair was pasted to her face from perspiring, eyes bloodshot and teary. Her knees trembled as she once again doubled over and vomited. The contents of her stomach, projectile in their quitting of her insides, flew into the toilet of the one stall lavatory. Knowing it was difficult to subside the burning of her throat from the acid, she remained silent through the otherwise noisy throwing up. At last she was able to keep her symptoms at bay, and washed her face before applying a forceful smile.

Only as she opened the door was she approached by House on one side of her and the Chapel's on another. They both began to ask impertinent questions simultaneously, House mostly because he knew she had a splitting headache and he wanted to irritate her before she would explode and the couple inquired in fear for their daughter. "Is she all right?" "Why do you spend so much time by yourself, Chase?" "Does my daughter have a tumor?" "Are you on drugs or something, people? My God." "Chase, blah blah blah, are you done talking yet?"

"Stop," she finally groaned helplessly, closing her eyes and stopping in her tracks. Holding up her hands, she gave a heaving sigh. "I haven't checked on Bailey for three hours. You asked me only an hour ago. House, isn't there someone else you can bother?"

The parents, agitated and put off, turned toward each other, desperate to see Bailey. House, observant and keen, watched Emma carefully as she walked in a strange new pattern down the hallway. She carried herself differently. It was evident; House wondered why no one else had said anything. _If I brought it to the table…I wonder._

"Listen up, lousy slobs," he congenially addressed the team as he paced the room, holding a red marker in his right hand while leaning on his cane with his left. "There is a difference between secrecy—" he banged his cane firmly on the desk, and suddenly lowered his voice, "and privacy. Conventionally—generally—secrecy is usually used for some morally incorrect doing or cause. Like, say, lying that your daughter has a tumor to, for some reason, raise your medical bill and drop your insurance bill." He coughed, hinting. "Secrecy, my friends, _is_ morally wrong." He once again slapped his cane on the table, this time purposely in front of the pale faced girl who had emerged from the lavatory not two hours prior. "Privacy is something completely different. Privacy has nothing to hide, but the personal aspect gives the person the right to not voice it freely. Privacy is not hiding something. Secrets are not personal. Secrecy and privacy are two very different things." His team eyed him with precaution. "Missus Chase, my friends, has a secret."

When the four other pairs of eyes suddenly were averted toward her, Emma glanced around quizzically, scared, speechless. _House, how could you do this to me?_ But she wasn't ready to tell anyone. Once she met her husband's eyes, she knew that he urged her to just spit it out. And then the tears welled up. She shook her head, ever so slightly. Standing, she pushed back her chair and marched out of the room, closing the door behind her in one fluid movement.

"Women. So temperamental," remarked House passively.

Cameron turned her face of disbelief toward him. "House, you obviously made her upset. She and you both know something that the rest of us don't."

"No," Chase blurted, eyes cast to the table, hands capering there nervously. He plunged his fingers into his hair and rested his elbows on the tabletop, and said guiltily, "I know, too."

"Well then what the hell is going on?" Foreman interjected.

There was a pause. Chase was unable to bring himself to say the cause without the consent and will of his wife. Cameron and Foreman were baffled. House waited for the opportune moment to speak. "Give me the three main causes for vomiting. Just three."

The answer came automatically for the dark man. "Uh…stomach or intestine infection, injury or irritation…irregular brain function or damage…and inner ear infections like dizziness, or motion sickness."

"Ah, yes. Motion sickness. And where or when do you usually get that?"

"Usually in a car or some type of moving vehicle." Cameron was the one to answer this time, anxious and waiting for the final verdict—what could this all mean? House often had something up his sleeve.

"Or, say, when the person is simply moving," said House with an irregular emphasis. "Or…persons?"

And did this strike a note of wonder. What did he mean by that? His conclusions were such enigmas, it was hard for anyone to decipher them without him giving another clue—or ten. Chase, heart pounding and sinking down to his toes, felt himself begin to lose it. "House, just stop this stupid nastiness already. If you say it's such a secret, don't bother trying to figure it out. It's our secret, not yours," he shouted defensively, bringing himself to his feet. He kept a hard gaze with his boss, which was soon broken down by the horror of House's constant, apathetic stare.

The man leaned over his scholar. He said lowly; softly, "Then come out and say it. Blondie."

_Oh how Chase had the urge to HIT this man. _But he refrained, building up his posture and going out to find his wife who had already fled the scene and was probably down to the next sector of the hospital. Without another word, he exited.

Allison stood. "If it's that important to them, let it be, okay?" The sardonic, regretful sneer she threw at House was not merely as effective as she'd wanted it to be—her facial expressions could've used some tuning, in his opinion—but she left it as it was and also moved through the door.

Foreman was still disappointed that he had not yet gotten to finish his coffee for that day. So many interruptions. "How do you like it?" he asked House, going over to the machine and getting the brew ready.

"Oh, I like it black," he replied, stumbling out of the room confidently. "Just like my men."


End file.
